


Sex on the Floor

by Coffee_Flavored_Kisses



Category: Chris Evans - Fandom, Evanston, Sebastian Stan - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Slash, real person fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_Flavored_Kisses/pseuds/Coffee_Flavored_Kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's in the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex on the Floor

You should have gone home, Chris. You should have just fucking gone home.  
But you stand outside the bar you haven’t been inside of in ages until today. You wait for Seb to finish that cigarette as he stands too far away from you, as he looks over the Boston skyline and talks about the architecture and all you can think about is the way his lips purse perfectly when he exhales. You see the billows of white curl against the night chill and you study the pattern his breath takes, study the way the wind carries it toward you. The nicotine will kill you but it doesn’t seem like the worst thing that could possibly happen to you right now.  
You snap back into it just as he squashes the filter under his boot and walks your way, and you’ve steadied yourself in time for him to take some jab at the Red Sox and you’re not having any of that.   
And this is where you make your mistake.  
He tells you thank you for showing him your city, that he’s glad he could visit and get to know your family and god, your mom’s a fucking awesome cook. You tell him it’s no problem. He tells you it’s late. You ought to tell him you’ll see him tomorrow, but you don’t.  
You tell him to stay at your place.  
He might very well have a hotel, and in fact he does. Of course he does. This was a surprise visit, and a guy like him would never just assume you’d put him up for a week. But you find yourself wishing he would come by, make himself a drink, make you a drink, no one drinks, nothing, anything. You just need him near you a little bit longer.  
He shrugs and makes that face he does, his open-mouth grin you’ve referred to as dorky on more than one occasion beaming at you as he nods his head and tells you that yeah, that sounds good.   
Good.  
Good?  
There are no answers in this, so you decide you’ll figure it out as the evening goes on.  
You’re in the cab and he’s texting someone. Could be a girl, could be his mom, could be someone he just met in that bar tonight while you were getting refills or signing a photo for the wall. It could be anyone or it could be no one but either way it bothers you more than it ought to. You’re desperate for his attention but you already have it. You know you do. You know you’re being ridiculous.  
You find yourself speaking, but you don’t even really understand the words you’re saying. Why are you asking about work? About a director you worked with once? About a schedule neither one of you will need to deal with for another month? Why? Do you need him looking at you, listening to you, responding to you so badly that you’d resort to being boring just to know if he still cares what you have to say?  
Yes.  
You tell him you’ve got cognac and he tells you that’s his favorite, which of course you already know. You thought about him when you bought it. You think about him all the time. You wonder if he thinks about you, but you know it doesn’t really matter.   
So he comes up and he throws his coat on the chair like it’s his place and you smile because it really should be. He chats about the bar you’d been in. You make it to the liquor cabinet and you pour him a glass made just the way he likes it.  
And now for the hard part. You sit on the couch and hope he does too but he opts for the chair where his coat now hits his back. To you it would feel better if he just told you he couldn’t wait to leave because that’s what it feels like. He’s making nice. He’s being a good friend. That’s what he does. And god, you could kick yourself for making a fool of yourself like this.  
But then he goes on to ask if you’ve been seeing anyone, and it’s a ridiculous thing for him to do. He knows you haven’t, or at least he should, but you humor him because you figure this must just be conversation, too, and you tell him the truth. He smiles at this and you don’t know why.   
You’re an idiot, Chris.  
And then he’s saying “Oh my god, is that a signed jersey?” And you look up at Johnny Damon’s uniform piece on the wall and tell him it is. You show it off. Someone bought it for you, but you wish you’d been able to meet him yourself. You could. You will.  
He gets up and moves to it and just studies it, and you had no idea he was so interested in sports, but you tell him all about ’04. That leads to stories about Fenway. That leads to memories. That leads to you with your shoulder to the wall with him in front of you and you’re pouring your heart out about childhood memories.  
But none of that matters. He’s listening, and you know you shouldn’t have bored him like that. It wasn’t fair. You apologize.  
He tells you not to.  
Anyway, you shake your head and go back and ask if he wants another drink, and he follows you, telling you that sure, that would be great. You think he’s setting his glass on top and he thinks you’re reaching inside and suddenly, somehow your hands touch for a sliver of a second as they get stuck in the crossway.   
It’s over in a flash, but he stops after the touch has gone and sort of freezes in place. You shake it off, talking more as your heart beats faster because that’s what you do. But you’re still thinking about how soft his fingers were when they brushed along your knuckles, and you’re thinking about how cold and wet they were from the ice and condensation of his glass, and you want to warm them up. You want to do so many things.  
But you can’t because it’s him.  
You hand him the glass after it’s filled, and he reaches to accept it. But this time his fingers are curling around the glass, meeting yours. This time it’s on purpose. This time, you freeze, too. Your eyes meet his and they’ve never looked so dark, pupils blown wide and you can practically feel his pulse beat as you touch him. Because you are touching him now. It’s only fingers, but it’s contact. It’s only fingers, but it’s better than you imagined.  
You want to whisper “sorry” but it sounds just like “I love you.” You still don’t know which one you said. Whatever it was, he feels no need to respond with anything more than his free arm finding your waist and pulling you close and cognac on your shirt because he couldn’t put the drink down fast enough. There’s a sea of lights outside your window, half a million people at your feet and you wonder if any of them can see you. Of course they can’t, it’s a ridiculous thought. But you tend to think the most ridiculous thoughts when a pretty boy is kissing your neck and tasting your skin and making a map on his body with every trail leading to you.  
Only for a moment do you believe it might be best for you to pull away and think of some excuse why all of this is wrong. You two have been drinking, you two are just tired, you two are heartbroken and lost and alone and there could be all kinds of reasons why this might seem right at the moment. But you’ve wanted this too long. And besides, his mouth has only just found yours and it would be rude to interrupt their meeting.  
You can feel his fingers under your shirt, his nails scraping along the muscles you worry won’t be good enough. God, that’s stupid, Chris. You know he’s seen them before. But it’s never been like this, not here, not this close. He’s never traced the hairs around your navel while his tongue tasted yours. He’s never moaned against your lips. You never knew you could taste him beneath all the imbibing the night had wrought.  
Suddenly he’s backing you against the wall and peeling off your shirt, and you’re letting him. You’ve never felt so bare and it’s a mystery how one man can make you want to beg for something you never knew you wanted. But your begs are halted by sighs, syllables caught up in your throat, unable to be uttered. He's touching you in places no man has ever touched before, and I don’t just mean your body. Your lashes open and close along his cheek when his mouth shifts to different aspects of your face, and you see him smiling because it feel so wonderfully and beautifully strange to him to have you this close at last.  
And finally, you see it.  
He does want you. He has for at least as long as you have wanted him. His body is pressed against yours, and you can feel the thick of him against your leg and his heartbeat competing with yours. Your own hands take initiative at last. You pull away his clothes and not in any particular order. There’s a shirt on the floor. There are jeans. Boots have been kicked across the room, and boxers around his ankles. And you want to touch him there but you want to make him tell you that’s what he wants.  
The brick wall will leave its scuffs on your back, but you can’t mind that now. With any luck there will be more marks than you can count from all kinds of sex-induced inflictions before the night is over, so it’s all the same. You wonder if you locked the door. You wonder if you walked the dog. You wonder why his hands are on your face and he’s stopped kissing you just long enough to tell you he wants to take you there on the floor.  
You nod because you still haven’t found your voice, but he’s dragging you down already anyway. He’s lying, half of him against the wood while his torso’s found the rug and you worry that he’s uncomfortable. But it’s something you only worry over for a moment, because he’s tugging you by the waist of your jeans and urging you to straddle him, to bow into his kisses, to touch him wherever you please. And you do. You do all of it.  
You always thought the first place you’d explore might be his chest, the strong lines where his muscles meet his collarbone and that clavicle you could slather in whipped cream and lick clean given the opportunity. But surprisingly it’s his hair you grab for first, your fists full of thick black waves as your hips slide over his, teasing him. Denim on skin. Cruel and unusual punishment.  
His gasps between kisses remind you of the sounds he made when the two of you simulated a fight at work, the sounds that first made you wonder if he made that noise in bed. Or in this case, on the floor. But you no longer have to wonder. You know now, and it’s everything you wanted it to be. It’s a desperation and an urgency you need to fulfill. You want to. You’ve always wanted to.  
One of your hands strays down the side of his face and steadies you over him, and his lips are on your chest, his lips are pressed to your ribs, his lips are made to be studied, to have songs written about them, to have tales of them recorded in the annals of history and be told of to generations to come. They know what to do. They know you. He knows you. And when he fingers the buckle of your belt, you let him do whatever the hell he wants.  
He has your jeans open and his hand is inside, and you can’t remember how to breathe. You’ve raised yourself a bit so that you can look into his eyes, and he’s looking at you, through you, like he knows exactly how the rest of this will go and you have no reason not to believe that he doesn’t.   
He doesn’t have to praise you. There’s no need for him to tell you how big it is, how good it feels, how he can’t wait to taste it. This isn’t a cheap porno and he doesn’t have to play for an audience. It’s you. It’s both of you. You know how much he likes it because you can literally feel it underneath you. He’s hard as a rock, and it must be painful for him. But he’s not complaining. You figure he must love the anticipation.  
His thumb is drawing circles over the tip of your cock, and you lean into another kiss because – well, do we really need to go over the lips again? Your hand falls even lower, finds his stomach, his waist, his leg, finds him ready as ever for your touch, and he even twitches a little when you make contact. He wears a smile that’s different from the others you’ve seen. And you love that even now after all this time you’re still discovering new things about him. And you don’t kiss anyone the way you kiss him. And you never have and you never will.  
You’re so close to the window, and it’s still open from before the night even began. It’s cold outside, but worse still, everyone outside can hear the sounds you make, and you find your hand leaving his hair and covering his mouth, muffling the moans, the way he says you name which is unlike the way anyone has ever said your name before, and you’re convinced of that. But god, he’s so loud! He’s so excited! He’s so turned on by you and so vocal that the only thing you can think to do to keep him hushed is stick two fingers halfway into his mouth and hope he gets the point.   
He does.  
He closes his mouth around them, his tongue swirling over each, telling stories of what they’d done in your mouth just moments ago. He’s sucking on them, licking them, trading in his moans for this, and neither of you are disappointed. This is better. This is better by far.  
And now you need his mouth to find occupancy elsewhere, because you could internally combust from this alone.  
You fall to the floor beside him, but roll him over your body so swiftly that he hasn’t a chance to decide if he likes this better or not. But he does, and you know because he wastes no time moving down your body, lips stamping each square inch of the flesh that leads down between your legs. His fingers dig into your thighs, the chain around his neck gives you an unexpected chill as it trails along your stomach, and his lips stake their claim on you. He’s made you his as if you weren’t already. With this, there is no room left for doubt as to what this all means for both of you.  
He’s so warm, his tongue so soft, so loving of your length. He pays special attention to you, never using too much pressure, warming your entire body by this one action. You’re used to closing your eyes while you get this kind of attention, but you’ve decided not to do that this time. No, you need to see those almost crimson lips stretched around you, those azure eyes that occasionally watch you between breaths, those fingers curled around your shaft to make up for what he can’t quite get inside his mouth. You need to see this because you need to know that yes, it is real, and yes, it is him. It’s Sebastian. It’s the man you’ve loved for longer than you’ve cared to believe that love existed.  
His fingers find their way up your leg, up your body, over your arm until he’s holding your hand, intertwining fingers, letting you know there is a touch of romance here in this act. You squeeze it tight a number of times to let him know you understand. His response is shown in only faster bobbing of his head on you until you can feel your tip in the back of his throat and you really can’t think of anything else at all right now.  
You scream out the name of a god you don’t believe in, shout profanities because your mind is far too filthy now to utter any words of sentiment or sweetness or, heaven forbid, feelings. He almost laughs and tells you to “Sh,” because of the window. Because of the neighbors. Because no one needs to know about any of this except for you.  
You can’t let this be over now – not yet. Your hand pulls him back up to you, to kiss you, to taste you on his mouth and god-fucking-dammit that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever thought about. You feel silly about the fact that your jeans are still hoisted high while the rest of you is exposed, and you want to laugh. You smile. He looks at you curiously and you just tell him he’s gorgeous before you’ve got him back on his back, and it’s his turn.  
You can’t skip over those nipples this time. They were begging for attention before, but now they really mean it. They’re so hard, so lovely in your mouth you know now. Now as you kiss them, one by one, slowly. Now as you taste them. Now as you find he can’t resist you when you do this to him. His back is arched and his eyes are closed and he’s whispering yesses and mouthing his praises but even he, even the man you had to silence so forcefully before, cannot speak eloquently enough to tell you this is heaven to him. His legs curl around your body just as you’ve kissed the center of his chest and just over his heart. You find that the sensation of the blood pumping against your lips is something you’ll remember forever.   
He whispers your name, caresses your cheek, and you look to him with something of fear in you, scared he’s going to tell you it’s not enough. But he’s not really calling you. He’s only saying you. He’s saying you because he says what he feels.  
You kiss his body, the trail that leads to his cock, pressed firm against him now as he must be absolutely dying for the contact by this point. Your tongue tastes him, licks along the underside of his prick, swallows him up into your mouth and elicits sounds you’ve never heard. He’s so fucking beautiful like this, body molded into this shape, eyes closed, those sounds that aren’t quite words. You want to take a picture, paint him, tattoo him on your body like this just so that you can see it any time at all. You’re gripping him. You don’t mean to. You take him in completely and he’s covering his own mouth now to keep himself quiet.   
This is the kind of effect you like to have.  
You move faster on him, and he begs you even more. Faster. Faster. Don’t stop. Don’t stop for god’s sake keep fucking going! You obey because he’s yours and you’re his and it’s only right and natural and satisfying to do what he says. And he grabs your hair and pulls it tight and before you know it, you can feel him shooting into your mouth while his body tenses for a moment, then relaxes completely as you swallow as much as you can.  
You release your hold on his body and fall beside him as he catches his breath, your hand slipping into his, squeezing it, waiting as you always do. But then he looks at you and you want to cry for some reason. You belong here, like this, but it still seems wrong somehow.   
This will take some getting used to.  
He cradles you in his arms much sooner than you expected, and that’s only if you expected it at all. He presses lips to lips and rhymes with your body until he shows you that he intends to continue where he left off. It’s now soon enough that his head is back between your legs and your body is enveloped in that now-familiar heat, and he’s taking his time because he loves you.  
Your fingers sift through his hair and you try to watch, but you find yourself nearing your end and you want to feel him with the other senses more clearly, so you close your eyes. You relax, and he lets you. You sigh, and he smiles. You imagined this night a hundred times at least in all the time you’ve known him, and in none of those scenarios did it happen like this. There were always declarations, raindrops, drunken nights on balconies, sudden revelations explored thoroughly before this sort of thing took place. But this is better.  
You don’t shout or yell or swear when the orgasm sweeps over you, wraps you up and takes you away. You pull his hair, you groan like you’re in pain, you laugh even. It’s a beautiful thing, this. It’s perfect.  
He does a sloppy job of cleaning up the mess you’ve made, but you’re grateful when you can taste yourself on his skin. There’s something gorgeous about a man covered in your come, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand and lie on the floor half-dressed with the man of your dreams in your arms.   
He’s naked. He’s happy. He’s smiling.  
Neither of you says a word for a very long while. There will be no declaration of love. Not tonight. You will simply rise to your feet at some point, clean yourselves up, and fall into bed. Tomorrow, things will be about the same. And probably the day after as well.  
But one day you will be sitting in a public place, and his hand will be in yours, and people will see, and you won’t care. And that is when you’ll know that this wasn’t just sex on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Also submitted to http://sebstanfrustration.tumblr.com/, along with all of my other Sebastian Stan works. Some fics are also posted to my tumblr, http://renntastic.tumblr.com/.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated!


End file.
